The Golden Sunset
by BenFo
Summary: Christopher Shepard saw heavy combat with Task Force Hawk, a join task force created by the GDI to combat insurgency in countries heavily influenced by NOD forces. When Task Force Hawk was disgraced in a lewd slaughter of civilians, Shepard retreated back home only to find that the war was following him. Written by a Marine combat veteran. HEAVY military lingo. Please review
1. Chapter 1

The Golden Sunset

By Benjamin Fortier

Based on the "Command and Conquer" Universe created by Westwood Studios

Any names used are currently placeholders, and do not reflect my feelings for individuals that actually have those names in real life

June 3rd, 1999

0942 Hours

Captain Darrell King moved quickly through the hallways of Building 864, GDI Central Command in Monrovia, Liberia. He barely had time to acknowledge the several soldiers who gave him the proper greeting of the day. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the manila envelope he carried under his armpit labeled "Task Force Hawk" in bold, black letters.

He stopped outside the briefing room and looked at his watch. He was three minutes early. Command had just received the distress call from Major Weiland, Hawk's Company Commander. The situation was moving at a dire pace, and Captain King knew that if they were going to bring Task Force Hawk back to Monrovia alive, they had to act quickly and with sound decision.

King took a moment to collect his thoughts, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Memories of home tried to pry into his head, but he rejected them. He couldn't become distracted now. He had to enter the briefing room ready to play the game. There were lives at risk. He had to step up to the plate with no distractions.

"Gentlemen," King entered the briefing room, looking to Lt. Colonel Marc Laurent, Colonel Stanley Hunter, Colonel Paul Wright, and Major Scott Kotansky. The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee mixed with sweat. It was a familiar odor in the officer's quarters of CentCom/Monrovia.

King wasted no time, dimming the lights as soon as he entered the room. He stepped up to the laptop positioned in front of the drop down screen, placing his envelope of documents onto a nearby table. He brought up the EVA Command Display, and started without skipping a beat.

"Members of the 18th Infantry Battalion, Task Force Hawk, 3rd Platoon, have come under heavy fire while traveling on a foot mobile patrol on the outskirts of Ganta, Liberia," King spoke with confidence, but his hands palms were sweating and shaking, his nerves jolted. "3rd Platoon's task was to disrupt and distract the enemy while 1st and 2nd Platoon delivered relief and aid to citizens of Ganta. 3rd Platoon came under concentrated small arms fire this morning at 0823, a little over an hour ago."

The commanders listened intently, following King's laser pointer as he picked out key areas on the digital map.

"3rd Platoon fought through the ambush, only to be split up by enemy fixed wing air attack. They sustained three killed in action, and two wounded in action. 3rd Platoon has fortified several different buildings on the outskirts of the city, in the area of their patrol route, 200 meters from their designated rally point. 1st and 2nd Platoon are pinned down in the center of the city, receiving heavy indirect fire and machine gun attacks. Air support is approximately eight hours away. Ground reinforcements have met a blockade of NOD mechanized infantry."

Lt. Colonel Laurent, the 18th Infantry Battalion Commander was the first to speak. He stood with a chiseled face in the front of the Army and Marine Corps commanders.

"Task Force Hawk is vital in stabilizing peace in the area. Ganta citizens have become hostile towards GDI forces, thanks to our poor public relations efforts in the city. It is believed that this large number of enemy troops that have come down on my men came across the border from Guinea in an attempt to reinforce their 4th Armored Division several miles to the South of Ganta. Intel confirms that 4th Armored is moving up to the city to attack Task Force Hawk," Laurent paused for a moment, scanning the room of expressionless faces. He had a lot of pride in his Battalion, especially in Task Force Hawk. He hand picked the men he thought would work the hardest to bring aid to the citizens of Liberia, and fight the hardest if they came under fire. "Hawk will be crushed if we don't evacuate them before the 4th Armored arrives. Colonel Hunter, sir, I'm hoping your ORCAs will pound the shit out of that Armored Division before they reach my men."

Hunter nodded slowly. "You can count on it, Marc."

"I know I can count on all of you," Laurent took his seat. "Captain, let's go over our options."


	2. Chapter 2

Ganta

1007 Hours

The dilapidated two story building was going to have to do. The sun was beginning to beat down upon the dusty dirt roads of Ganta, Liberia. The chatter of distant machine gun fire and the hollow thud of mortars pounding into the city molested the normally tranquil air. GDI Intelligence estimated the humidity at around 80%, heat around 98 degrees Fahrenheit. Jungle Warfare Training had paid off for Task Force Hawk.

3rd Platoon scattered throughout the buildings on the outskirts of the city. They hunkered down and waited for word from their Platoon Commander, 1st Lieutenant Gene "Otto" Ottoman, a twenty six year old US Army Infantryman, or their Company Commander, Major Tom Weiland, a thirty five year old US Marine. Weiland was riding along with 1st Platoon in a HMMWV when their convoy was hit by a rocket propelled grenade. 1st and 2nd Platoon began to satellite patrol around the city where they were both caught in an intense ambush. Now Weiland had the responsibility of taking care of the two platoons stuck in the city, and the lone soldiers on the outskirts with no reinforcements.

Lance Corporal Robby McDowell was the first man inside the old two story building. He button hooked to the corner of the room, and scanned to assess any threats. The building was old and rundown, but still had a roof, which would protect them against any possible threats from the air. Many of the windows were busted out, and the floor was covered in trash and junk. The young Marine from South Boston kicked on his flash light and scanned the ceiling and corners. Corporal Chris Shepard moved into the room next, wielding his M60E3, short barreled machine gun. He moved throughout the four roomed building to search for a suitable place to set up his weapon.

"All clear," McDowell shouted. The rest of the fire team moved in. Lt. Ottoman set up a casualty collection point in the first room, and the men hunkered down.

"Staff Sergeant, see if we can get those AT 4's positioned somewhere on the second floor," Lt. Ottoman spoke to Staff Sergeant Jeremy Thaymes, a Marine Corps Anti-Armor infantryman.

"Roger that, sir," Thaymes moved out without hesitation.

Ottoman cautiously walked around inside the building, checking on his men to ensure they had taken up appropriate defensive positions. He was still weary about a possible threat inside the home, but shrugged it off. The whole area was desolate and bombed out. The citizens of Ganta were primarily located in the center of the city.

Ottoman gently stepped into the room on the Northeastern corner where Shepard had taken up position with his machine gun. Ottoman stood unnoticed in the doorway for a few moments to observe Shepard setting up camouflage around the window, breaking out ammunition for a hasty reload, and readying his spare barrel.

"Good work, Corporal," Ottoman broke the silence, causing Shepard to grab his chest as if he'd been shot, letting out a loud yelp.

"Jeez," Shepard said with a shortness of breath. "What the fuck, sir?"

Ottoman stepped into the room. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Well you did, Lieutenant," Shepard scowled at the officer. "What do you want?"

"I'm checking on my men."

"Your men?" Shepard scoffed quietly. "Last time I checked, sir, this is just a temporary assignment for you to look good in front of your fellow Officers over at CentCom. What are they giving you for this one? A Silver Star? Army Commendation Medal with a V? Marines lead Marines, sir. Soldier's don't lead Marines."

The tension in the room skyrocketed as Shepard stood in front of the Army Officer, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. Ottoman realized the moment that he had taken this assignment that some of the Marines may not take kindly taking orders from someone of another branch. Ottoman nodded and bit his tongue, deciding to pacify the situation.

"Just keep up the good work," Ottoman turned to leave the room, and noticed Staff Sergeant Thaymes standing in the doorway, his eyes wide, glaring at Corporal Shepard. Thaymes pushed past Ottoman and grabbed Shepard by the flak jacket.

"Just who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" Thaymes kept his volume low, as to not cause a scene. He tugged Shepard closer to his face. "Huh? Where the fuck do you think you are?"

"Fuck off, Jeremy!" Shepard pushed the solidly built African American off him.

"You will address me as Staff Sergeant, Corporal."

"Get off your fucking high horse and smell the gunpowder, Jeremy. We're in combat, not in garrison."

Thaymes was outraged. It didn't matter to him that he and Shepard had gone to boot camp, infantry school, and toured the Marine Corps together. He was a Staff Non-Commissioned Officer in the United States Marine Corps. How dare a Corporal speak to him in that manner! Discipline is discipline, whether in the field or in garrison, he expected his Marines to act professionally and courteously at all times.

Ottoman stepped into the situation, placing a hand on Thaymes' right shoulder. Thaymes looked down at Shepard like a vicious dog that has been told to heel by its owner. Shepard remained calm and seemingly unafraid.

"Gentlemen," Ottoman spoke quietly. "Now is not the time. Not here, not now, and not ever. I know we've hit a rut, but we've got to remain focused. Keep your head in the fight."

With that, Ottoman turned and left the room. Thaymes turned and followed trace, giving a quick glare back to Shepard.

"Aye aye, sir," Shepard called out mockingly, and returned to fortifying his position.

Ottoman entered the first room and crouched down besides Lance Corporal McDowell, who was sitting beneath a window attempting to get the radio up and running.

"Anything?"

"No sir, not yet," McDowell spoke in a thick Bostonian accent. "I can only get 1st Platoon on the hook and they can't reach the Major."

"Alright. Keep trying. Let me know if you get anything."

"Roger."

Ottoman stood to face Thaymes, who was looking outside the windows to observe any possible movement.

"Staff Sergeant, let's check on the rest of the Platoon and see what our situation is."

"Aye sir."

"Corporal Shepard?" Ottoman hollered down the hallway.

"Send it!" Shepard shouted back.

"You're in charge."

Thaymes looked shocked. How could the Lieutenant leave such a shit bag in charge? Ottoman saw the expression on Thaymes' face.

"He'll be fine," Ottoman whispered.

Thaymes' face scrunched up, but he nodded in agreement with the Platoon Commander. The two men left the room, leaving the three Marines to set up their equipment and attempt to get in touch with Major Weiland. The fire fight in the distance seemed so far away, but they knew it was only a matter of time before the enemy was going to counter attack.

Once Shepard had set up his position, he walked around the home in an attempt to better fortify the doors and windows. He checked up on the two younger Marines, and sat down for chow. They talked over a cold MRE. Anything about home, girls, or their lives before the Corps. Anything to get their mind off the stresses of combat. Shepard noticed that the young rifleman, Danielson, spoke very little, and ate by himself in the corner. When he wasn't eating, he would have a cigarette in his mouth, or be pacing back and forth in one of the empty rooms. This caught Shepard's attention, and he decided he'd keep an eye on the young Marine.

Robby McDowell knew he was in the presence of an awesome individual. He had heard the stories of Corporal Shepard maneuvering under heavy fire to save another Marine's life. His Platoon Commander had put Shepard up for the Silver Star, but this was shot down by the Company Commander after he learned that Shepard disobeyed a direct order from his Platoon Sergeant. Disobeying that order saved the lives of many Marines, but the Company Commander didn't care. He demoted Shepard and gave him up to Task Force Hawk. No one else wanted him.

McDowell knew better than to mention the situation to Shepard, though. He would get furious and refuse to talk about it. Only the Marines from the battle can vouch for Shepard's heroic action, and all of their stories (except for minor details due to combat stress) matchup. McDowell knew he was in good hands, and trusted the Corporal with his life. He didn't have a choice. In combat, you don't always get to choose who you fight beside. You just hope they choose to fight with all of their ability. McDowell wasn't worried about Chris Shepard.


	3. Chapter 3

Ganta

1104 Hours

The house was quiet, and the air was still. Shepard and Danielson stood watch while the other men attempted to get some rest. Danielson paced in front of the southern most windows. Sometimes Shepard would catch him staring at nothing, mumbling to himself about ghosts and shadows, his eyes darting between the claymore detonator that rested along side some radio equipment and the camouflaged marker where they hid the explosive besides an unoccupied building across the street. They had placed the claymore at an angle as to disrupt any troops or soft skinned vehicles that may try to over run their position. His actions were starting to crawl down Shepard's spine. He wasn't exactly sure what to make of the young Marine's questionable behavior.

"Hey man," Shepard stood next to Danielson, looking out the window. The humidity caused beads of sweat to construct on their foreheads, rolling gently down their cheeks. The sun was only going to get worse as the day progressed. Luckily they had shade under the roof of the building. "See anything?"

"Na," Danielson smirked. "I'm just imagining what it'd be like right now if one of those mother fuckers popped their heads up like Duck Hunt or something."

Shepard chuckled and shook his head. Maybe there wasn't anything wrong with the kid after all. Everyone's screws became a little loose in a combat zone. That's why so many cases of combat stress went over looked after Monrovia. Everyone deals with the pain in their own unique way.

"You know," Danielson continued. "When we landed in Monrovia, I was so fucking green, man. The work up, the classes, all of that shit just goes right out the window. As if you weren't even there. But then you look down and your legs are moving, and you're hitting the deck, and you're shooting at the enemy. Looking through your sights is useless, 'cause you're looking through a fucking tunnel the size of a pin hole."

Shepard nodded slowly as Danielson talked. His speech was smooth and crisp like a story teller on an afternoon kid's show, but most of all, Shepard could relate.

"It's all just a big blur, man. A haze of yelling and screaming and machine guns going off and grenades blowing up. I think it was when I looked over," Danielson slowly turned his head to the left, as if he was reenacting the situation. "And saw Matt LaPlante just lying there. I think that's when shit got heavy."

Shepard didn't know what to say. He wasn't at Monrovia with Danielson. He watched as the young man stared blankly into the corner of the room, silent and unmoving, just breathing. The horrors of war are unrelenting. They don't discern between man, woman, or child. Military or civilian. One thing that Chris Shepard had realized, however, is that each person takes grief and pain and digests it in their own way. He was no Psychiatrist, but he could tell that Eric Danielson was having a hard time with the loss of his friends, and the stress of war.

"Everything is going to be cool, man," Shepard spoke softly, but with confidence. "We're all gonna get out of this shit."

"I'm not the same guy I was when I came here. It's almost like when you get stoned and you feel that head change. My entire mentality has completely changed. I'm just running on survival mode, man," Danielson was seemingly talking to himself, trying to find some comfort in his own mind.

Shepard realized that the young man was beginning to open up. This was a good sign. He had to choose his words carefully, or Eric would shut down and close him out.

"You have to realize that…"

The Corporal's words were cut off by a quick burst of machine gun fire from one of the building's occupied by other members of the Platoon. Danielson and Shepard quickly crouched down and readied their rifles. McDowell, who had been sleeping in the same room, stirred gently.

"McDowell, wake up!" Shepard shouted.

McDowell's heavy eyes slowly opened as he scanned the room.

"Fuck," he said as he raised himself in disappointment, realizing where he was.

Time came to a standstill as silence filled the air. No one else continued firing, and the enemy didn't return any fire. McDowell shot to his feet and peeked out the window closest to him.

"McDowell, get on the radio and see if anything's going on," Danielson ordered.

"Roger," McDowell put the phone to his ear and listened intently.

Staff Sergeant Thaymes quickly entered the room and grabbed the radio out of McDowell's hands.

"Whiskey Six, this is Echo Six Tango, do you copy?" Thaymes crouched down, keeping his wits about him. He didn't want to catch a bullet in the side of the head and never see it coming.

"Standby for Six actual," the radio chirped back.

Shepard motioned for Danielson to stay put and watch the horizon as he ran to the back room and grabbed the M60. Danielson watched intently, fighting the tunnel vision. Suddenly, he saw movement.

"Contact!" he shouted as he leveled his M16 and blasted off several rounds.

Thaymes handed the radio to McDowell.

"Let them know we've made contact!" Thaymes shouted as he rushed to Danielson's side.

"Two o' clock, four hundred meters, right past that shack," Danielson pointed with his non-firing hand. Thaymes lifted his binoculars to look at the area.

"Yea, I see 'em," Thaymes whispered, sheathing the binoculars. "Keep 'em back and keep me updated."

Shepard returned to the front room with the M60, setting it up in the window. Danielson walked the machine gunner on to the target area, and Shepard started firing to suppress the enemy.

"Staff Sergeant, they're asking for the Lieutenant!" McDowell shouted over the gun fire.

"Gimme that fucking thing!" Thaymes grabbed the radio from McDowell's hands. The fire from the other GDI occupied buildings began to pick up. The enemy began to fire back. They were attempting to maneuver into some very close range.

"Three hundred meters and closing!" Shepard yelled in between bursts of machine gun fire.

"Keep them back!" was Thaymes' reply.

Chris' frustration was building as the enemy seemed to dodge their fire, disappearing and reappearing in new areas. They were using tall grass, broken down vehicles, and buildings to bound from cover to cover. Shepard couldn't be sure, but he thought he counted seven to ten of them, a small force to take on an entire platoon hunkered down in buildings. Shepard figured they were probably just a probing squad, and would soon fall back once they realized what they were up against.

"Whiskey Six this is Echo Six Tango, we are under heavy fire and requesting fire support," Thaymes shouted into the radio. His hands and voice were beginning to shake. He felt the need to constantly shout his words. His vision started to collapse until it was as if he was looking through a peephole.

Shepard and Danielson remained relatively calm. Danielson was about half way through his second magazine, pacing his rate of fire. They both knew that Thaymes was exaggerating. They hadn't even received a single round from the enemy. Not on their position, at least. The other GDI fortified buildings were taking sporadic hits, but nothing too concentrated. Shepard worried that Thaymes' stress would negatively affect the other Marines' morale.

"Roger uh, immediate suppression, grid 88125-12032, enemy troops in the open, danger close, approximately 300 meters and closing from our pos, HE quick, fire when ready," Thaymes was trying not to stumble over his words as he called for fire. His fingers ran quickly over the map, double checking the grid location. His eyes darted between a written coordinate and their actual coordinates. Someone had already designated target areas. What the hell was written down? Who the fuck had this map last?

McDowell watched panic fill Thaymes' eyes.

"Staff Sergeant?" McDowell was worried.

A few seemingly endless moments later, the ground shook with a large explosion. Shepard and Danielson both dove to the ground with their weapons. The mortar had landed about fifty meters across the street, blowing apart the roof of a home.

"Check fire, check fire God damn it!" Thaymes screamed into the radio.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" McDowell was pushed to the ground as Thaymes dove on top of him. Two more rounds impacted near their position, peppering the exterior with shrapnel. Dust quickly billowed through the doors and windows, limiting their vision to only a few feet in front of them.

"How many guns do we have?" Danielson shouted.

"I don't know! Three, I think. Fucking mortarmen assholes," Shepard replied, preparing to return to his firing position. They all waited intently, and Thaymes got back on the hook.

"Immediate suppression on target Victory X-Ray Two, fire when ready!" Thaymes had screwed up. He failed to realize that sometime earlier, the Lieutenant had coordinated with the Company Commander and pre-designated several target areas surrounding their position for indirect fire.

Shepard mumbled under his breath, and returned to his firing position. He was frustrated, and picked up his rate of fire although his visibility was low. Danielson hopped up and dusted himself off, trying to peer out the window. The wind was carrying a large dust cloud to the east. It was still hard to see their targets, so he decided to wait to fire.

Thaymes helped McDowell up, making sure he was alright. When he heard the loud chatter of the M60, he quickly moved over to Shepard and slapped him on the back of the flak jacket.

"Conserve your fucking ammo!" Thaymes was angry.

Shepard let off the trigger for a moment and glared at Thaymes.

"Get your fucking coordinates right before you get us killed!"

Danielson and McDowell both bit their tongues. They had never heard anyone speak that way to Thaymes, let alone a Staff NCO. The room went silent. Thaymes' eyes bugged out of his skull as he stared down at Shepard.

The thump of the mortars hitting their correct targets broke the silence. Thaymes' still didn't know what to say. His junior Marines were staring at the two, expecting a fight. Shepard slowly stood and faced Thaymes.

"Get out of my fucking face, bitch," Thaymes hissed.

"This is my firing position, Staff Sergeant," Shepard said coldly over more mortar impacts.

Thaymes' fists tightened. Danielson took a step back and shot a glance to McDowell. He gave McDowell a smirk and a wink, as if to say "Get a load of these guys." The snaps of assault rifles from the other buildings couldn't cut through the tension in the air. McDowell was nervous. How could Staff Sergeant Thaymes lead them in combat if he can't even get a hold of his men?

"Marine coming in!" Lieutenant Ottoman's voice came from the rear room. Thaymes' head snapped to the direction of the voice, giving Shepard a perfect opportunity to give Jeremy a solid right hook.

He didn't take it.

Thaymes jogged into the back room to meet with the Lieutenant. Danielson gave Shepard a disappointed look. Shepard shook his head.

"It's not worth it," Shepard said. "Not here."

McDowell pressed his ear against the radio as chatter started to come in.

"Sounds like the enemy showed their tail," McDowell relayed to the Marines. "No friendly casualties."

Shepard took a sigh of relief and changed over his ammunition on the machine gun. He realized this would only be the beginning of a seemingly endless period of time. The smell of freshly burned gunpowder wafted throughout the small building. Empty casings and links to the machine gun lay scattered throughout the dirt floor. He kicked at the small pile of empty casings and dusted off the M60. If he didn't keep his discipline, the gun would jam up and they would be in a load of shit. Luckily for him, the best thing for the machine gun was for it to be fired. Again and again. That was the machine's only purpose. Shepard babied his weapon, and knew if he took of her, she would take care of him.

He watched as Danielson would stare off into space, a lit cigarette pursed between his lips. He'd never seen someone smoke so much before. Danielson said it would calm his nerves. Shepard knew otherwise. McDowell was seemingly doing alright for his first time in combat. He had his head in the game, and his act together. He was a vital player to the platoon, the only method of communication between them and the rest of the company (who had all of the fire support).

Shepard also realized the situation between him and Staff Sergeant Thaymes was volatile and bad for troop morale. He had to keep his mouth shut from now on. Belittling the Staff Sergeant in front of his men was a bad idea, but it didn't seem that the younger Marines seemed to care much for Thaymes in the first place.

Jeremy Thaymes and Chris Shepard go way back to the days of boot camp. Two young kids from New York City travelling down to Parris Island together. They got along fairly well, given their contrasting backgrounds. Chris was a bright young man who had dreams of one day being a social worker for veterans. His mentality was simple: what better way to get to know how veterans think than to become one? Jeremy had joined the Marines to get away from the gangster life in Harlem. He had it rough in the Marine Corps as a young black man, but Chris was always there to get a laugh out of him or just plain talk to him. He saw this as the early stages of his social worker career.

Things changed when Jeremy shot up through the ranks and Chris lagged behind. Jeremy had found a calling in the Corps, and looked down upon Chris for not being as motivated and dedicated as he. When Jeremy had returned from his tour as a Drill Instructor, Chris noticed a huge difference in his old friend. He was disgusted with many of Chris' actions, calling him nasty and undisciplined if Chris went a few days without shaving.

"I'm on fucking leave, man." Chris tried to explain himself over the phone while on a two weeks leave back in New York. At first he thought Jeremy was kidding when he degraded Chris. A few minutes into the conversation, he realized he wasn't.

Jeremy didn't care what he had to say. He was still a Marine, whether he was on duty or not. Jeremy wouldn't let himself become undisciplined. He made sure his grooming standards were always up to par, and his uniform was squared away. Chris never understood it, but what was to understand? Chris saw himself as an infantryman, and that was it. There was nothing else to it. He just wanted to fight, do his time, and make sure that everyone else came home in one piece. That was his mind set when he charged through the enemy's field of fire to save those young GDI soldiers. He didn't care if he got smoked or not, he had a job to do at the time. Medals, ribbons, grooming standards? Who gives a fuck when bullets are flying and guys are getting hit? Chris hated the bureaucratic bullshit of the Corps, and of GDI. After this tour, Chris decided it was time to get out and go home.


	4. Chapter 4

Monrovia

1125

Colonel Hunter barged into the pilot's hooch. His cover was off, sleeves rolled half way up his arms, and a look of absolute frustration and anger riddled his hardened face.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Hunter screamed as he stood in the doorway.

"Attent-" The entire room of pilots burst to their feet. Chairs fell backwards onto the floor, creating a machine gun burst of aluminum on concrete. For a few seconds after, the hooch was silent. The veins in Colonel Hunter's neck pulsed. The heavy duty industrial fans hummed. The pilots had no idea what they had gotten themselves into.

The ORCA crews scurried around the airfield. Organized chaos flooded inside the protected walls of the GDI compound.

As far as the command knew, there were no air assets in Monrovia. No transports were allowed to fly without ORCA air support. The transport security teams sat patiently for three hours, waiting for any type of escort to pick up Task Force Hawk. Someone was about to get an earful once this operation was over...

ORCA teams flew in pairs. The light maneuverability of the aircraft made it vastly superior to any rotary wing aircraft. The ORCA's used a similar propulsion system to the Harrier, but far more advanced. Their twin, rotating engine units allowed the ORCA to move at incredibly high speeds with excellent mobility and maneuverability.

Although they were often used in small numbers because of their light armor, ORCA teams would pack a punch, tearing into infantry and medium armored vehicles with their twin 30mm cannons and Hellfire rocket pods.

The whine of the ORCA's engines pierced the air. Crew members rushed to arm the mechanical beasts, while the pilots received their orders.

"I can't believe they were sitting there this whole time," Lt. Colonel Laurent watched the airfield from his air conditioned office. "Fucking pricks."

Colonel Hunter scoffed, shaking his head at the sight of the scramble.

"They got back two hours ago. Two fucking hours ago, Marc."

"And no one checked in?"

"Nope."

"I want someone's ass."

Hunter laughed.

"Let's worry about getting your boys home in one piece, my friend."

Ganta

1130

"Heads up," McDowell launched himself over to the radio. It was beginning to speak in its garbled radio language.

McDowell put the phone to his ear and jotted notes down. Lieutenant Ottoman stepped in to catch the word.

"Sir, sounds like they have an extract for us after all," McDowell spoke while he listened to the rest of the transmission.

"Give it to me," Ottoman ordered, extending his hand to take the phone.

Thaymes entered the room, his face eager in anticipation with the extraction plan.

"They'll be in our air space in twenty five minutes," the Lieutenant relayed the message. "Extraction is in about forty. They're linking up with the Major, and escorting us out of here. Back to Monrovia to lick our wounds."

Ottoman handed the phone back to the young radio operator.

"If you were issued any humanitarian aid, leave it here. Stock up on ammo and get ready to move. As soon as we're all up, we'll patrol back towards the Company Commander and get the fuck out of here."

"Sir?" Danielson piped up. "Isn't that where the fighting is?"

"Yea. The way I see it, they'll already have us pinned by the time our air support gets here. The faster we move, the more momentum we can get to push through an ambush."

The Marines nodded in agreement. The Lieutenant had a point. The recent probing sent intelligence back to the enemy. It was just a matter of time before they would be up to their necks in bad guys. With gun trucks and air ships on their side, they had a fighting chance against any armor they may encounter.

"So let's turn that forty minutes into thirty, roger?"

Ottoman's reply was silence, but their heads nodded in agreement.

"Do it."

The commander's voice was like a starter pistol. MRE's, teddy bears, and bouncy balls flew out of packs and onto the floor of the empty home. McDowell placed a small child's doll in a rotting rocking chair. He broke his camera out and took a few snap shots. Thaymes rolled his eyes. Danielson chuckled.

Word was passed, and within fifteen minutes, the platoon was geared up and ready to go. Shepard felt uneasy, and the hair on the back of his neck began to stand up.

"Hey uh," Danielson rattled his canteen. It made a soft whooshing noise, indicating it was nearly empty. "I need a refill."

"Make it quick," Thaymes commanded. "And bring a buddy."

"I'll go," Lieutenant Ottoman pulled out his canteen, taking one last swig.

The conversation broke Shepard out of his trance. He grabbed his canteen and pounded a big gulp. Half way. He would make it to the extract just fine. If not, he could bum some off of Danielson.

From out of the corner of his eye, Shepard watched as the Lieutenant and the young Marine trotted the fifty yards to an adjacent building. They provided good security for each other. Shepard approved of their tactics, and closed his eyes for a moment to enjoy the refreshing drink.

The perception of time is a funny thing when a man's adrenaline reaches maximum capacity. Chris never heard the initial cannon fire, but knew exactly what had just occurred. He raced to holster his canteen, but moved what seemed to be an inch every few minutes. The feeling in his fingers disappeared, and he dropped the canteen on the ground just as the shell blew up in front of the two Marines outside the building, covering them in a cloud of dust, enveloping them in the debris that it kicked up.

3rd Platoon returned fire. The Brotherhood of NOD light tank fired again, this time, nailing its target: a machine gun nest on the second floor of the building the Lieutenant had been rushing to.

Shepard didn't have the time nor concern for his own safety to think about what had just happened. Reality began to pick up around him. The men in his building took up positions and began firing at the wave of infantry that stormed towards them. Chris Shepard sprinted outside to where he had last saw the two Marines fetching water.

When the dust settled, he came upon the bodies of Lt. Ottoman and Danielson. His heart stopped beating for a moment as he slowed his pace, trying to take the scene in. It was absolutely horrific. Ottoman was groaning, covered in dirt and blood, speaking incoherently. Danielson's left leg and arm were mangled beyond repair. A puddle of blood was pooling around his shredded limbs. His kevlar was splintered, several yards away from the body. The top of his skull was blown out. The Doc was working on Ottoman. Chris did a makeshift baseball slide next to the medic. The closer he got, the more intense the smell of dirt and blood became.

"Grab Danielson!" Doc shouted.

"He's fucking dead!" Shepard shouted, staring at the lifeless corpse of Danielson.

"I know!" Doc grabbed Shepard by the shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "Just grab him, Chris. We gotta go!"

Once again, Chris embraced the chaos around him. Lt. Ottoman was leaning on his right elbow, attempting to patch up the wounds on his legs and arms. They were receiving heavy amounts of fire, but returning much more than the enemy had probably anticipated.

"Doc, this rate of fire isn't going to hold up, we gotta move,"

"We have no stretchers," Doc took a moment to look up at Shepard. Rounds were snapping above their heads. Chris' hands shook in anticipation of receiving one directly to the chin. "Unless you want to carry them."

"Well we can't stay here, obviously," the Lieutenant butted in. "Get into the CCP. Doc, grab Danielson and hold your pos. Do not take him in with us. I'll take care of myself."

Shepard spun around to face the enemy, and unleashed a burst at the three or four enemy infantrymen who were bounding towards their position. Another explosion. Chris winced as if he had been hit, but was relieved to hear the sound of metal on metal, and a secondary explosion. Staff Sergeant Thaymes was on the second level of the garrisoned building. He had fired at an AT-4 anti tank rocket directly into at the turret. The tank's weapon was out of commission.

"Way to go man!" Shepard shouted in jubilation as he helped Lt Ottoman to his feet.

Ottoman's left pant leg was torn open and covered with blood, but he had done a formidable job of patching it up. He bent over with a groan to grab his weapon, and gave Shepard a thumbs up. Doc was assisted by two other Marines as they moved Danielson's body into the building they had originally set to enter. Ottoman and Shepard returned fire as they inched their way back to cover.

In a split second, Shepard and Ottoman were on their backs. Another explosion decimated the second floor of the casualty collection point. The second floor that Staff Sergeant Thaymes was on. A well placed tank round sent timber flying through the air like shredded paper.

Chris' ears were ringing. His legs kept pumping, but he was going nowhere on his back. His consciousness was drifting in and out. Voices shouted for him to hold on.

He would miss the sound of ORCA attack ships pounding the enemy assault with their rockets and cannon fire. He wouldn't be able to hear the whoosh of the extract helicopter that would bring him and his men to safety. He would never get to apologize to Jeremy Thaymes for being such an asshole.

He refused to attend his Purple Heart and Global Defense Medal of Valor ceremonies. He told his superiors he was in too much physical pain to attend. In reality, he didn't want to look into the eyes of the parents of Jeremy Thaymes and Eric Danielson. He couldn't tell them that he had failed to save their sons. He couldn't tell them that he was sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

Milford, Massachusetts

June, 2001

"Christopher Shepard?"

Chris looked up from the magazine he had grabbed. It was something corny and he just had to keep his mind occupied as he sat in the waiting room at the Milford Veterans Hospital in southern Massachusetts.

"That's me!"

He threw down the magazine and approached the woman who had called him. She led him through a small maze of corridors, and ended at a door with the name "Dr. Rutherford" on it. Chris smiled politely at the woman who escorted him, and stepped into Doctor Rutherford's office.

"Hi Chris," Rutherford rose to his feet and extended his hand. "Nice to see you again."

"Thanks for calling me back, Doctor," Chris smiled politely and shook the man's soft hand. Dr. Rutherford seemed fragile, but the awards and degrees that adorned his wall would say that his mental capacity is far greater than the average person. The two men sat and Rutherford went straight to business.

"Chris, although you don't have the exact educational experience we were hoping for, I'd like to think I could make an exception for this case."

Chris smiled and nodded. It wasn't the right time to say anything yet.

"Our team needs an individual who is dedicated to the cause. And not only dedicated, but really understands what it means to be in this unique situation. I'd like to welcome you to the Milford Veterans Hospital, Mr. Shepard."

"Doctor Rutherford, I'm honored."

Rutherford let a bright, genuine smile creep across his face.

"We're honored to have you, Chris."

Ganta

1999

"Echo three Mike," Major Weiland spoke to Lance Corporal McDowell with a calm, but commanding demeanor. "Inform Six Actual that we are enroute to your position. Enemy heavy armor is inbound. How copy? Over."

Weiland waited a few moments of silence. He hoped McDowell would at least push the talk button. At least show Weiland he had some breath left to fight.

"Solid copy. Wait one."

Machine guns chattered behind McDowell's voice. Weiland was relieved to hear the young Marine was still alive.

"Step on it. Go!" Weiland shouted at his driver, a young Corporal.

"What about the air support?"

"Fuck."

Weiland switched the channel so that he could communicate with the ORCA teams that were flying along at low speeds to keep in tow with the convoy.

"Saber Six this is Whiskey Six, over."

"Go ahead Whiskey."

"Proceed to target location and assault enemy armor. Meet us there."

"You sure, Tom?"

"My guys are getting crushed. Move!"

"Roger. We'll try to leave something for you."

The ORCA's thrusters exploded, and the crafts took off in front of the convoy. Major Weiland's driver put the pedal to the floor, causing the turret gunner to bounce around violently.

"Are we going to make it, sir?"

"Yea. We'll make it."

The Corporal looked at the Major. His face was blank. He was lost in thought. It wasn't a look that concerned the driver, however. It was as if the commander was simulating one hundred thousand different scenarios in his head, eliminating the implausible and filtering through the possible. There's no one right way to do anything in combat. There are far too many factors. Too many what ifs. You can't always get it right. Sometimes it just comes down to luck.

If you don't get hit, you're lucky. If you do, unlucky. Maybe you were too exposed. Maybe not. Sometimes you can try to justify it. Most of the time you'll find that you can't.

Monrovia

Colonel Laurent watched the heads up display on the giant wall of plasma monitors. Each ORCA gun ship had their own live, closed circuit camera feed, and everyone inside the war room could see exactly what they saw.

"Hawk Actual, Saber Six, over."

"Go ahead." Laurent spoke as if the pilot was two feet before him. There was no need to yell over the commotion. He wore a communication system with a wireless microphone and in ear monitor. The building could erupt in chaos but the sound of the pilots would never be drowned out.

"We are approaching the target area."

"I see it. Keep your eyes open."

The team leader broke the gunships into a formation. The pilots, and everyone inside the war room, watched as their thermal imaging units locked onto the NOD armored vehicles. Several electronic chirps emitted, informing them the system had locked onto a target.

"Confirm targets and engage!" Saber Six ordered his gun ships.

Ganta

By this time, the entire platoon of forty men were reduced to thirty; six killed, and four incapacitated. Between the forty men, they occupied two buildings. They had started with five.

Lieutenant Ottoman sat bleeding on the floor on the new casualty collection point. His pistol was clutched in his right hand, and the receiver for the radio in his left. Bodies of injured were scattered about. A couple were now dead.

Ottoman looked down at the unconscious body of Chris Shepard. The explosion that had killed Staff Sergeant Thaymes launched Shepard and Ottoman through the air. Besides a few more bruises, abrasions, and concussions, they were fine. Ottoman was almost jealous of Shepard. At least he was unconscious. Ottoman's body groaned and heaved. Throbbing waves of pain washed over his body every couple of minutes. It was like being completely enveloped by a rolling wave of fire. His leg was immobile and shattered. He would be useless in the fight. He would hold the CCP until the reinforcements arrived.

"Sir!"

The whine of the thirty millimeter cannons from the ORCA's overwhelmed the chaos of the fight. Rocket pods exploded, sending guided missiles straight through the hulls of the NOD armor, incinerating the crew, and reducing the tank to scrap.

A small cheer. The weight of the entire world fell off of Ottoman's shoulders. He turned his head to the side, and threw up the rest of his morning rations.

The Doc rushed in to see if the platoon commander was alright.

"I'm fine, Doc," Gene Ottoman pushed the Corpsman aside. "Let's go."

Ottoman grabbed his helmet and threw it on his head. Doc helped the crippled commander to his feet.

"Perfect timing, Saber Six!" Ottoman cheered over the radio.

"Good to hear you're alright, Gene."

The Doc and Lt. moved awkwardly into the next room, leaving the radio under the watch of McDowell. The men were watching in awe as the enemy forces were blown apart. Gene smiled and laughed a little himself. His smile faded, though, as he watched more closely.

"Shit," he whispered

"Sir?" Doc was the only one who heard him.

"We're supposed to be here winning the hearts of these people," Ottoman's brain was beginning to stir. "Not blowing the snot out of them."

Doc looked confused.

"Sir, they came at us from a wasteland. There isn't anything out there but junk! No need to worry about collateral damage."

He was right. The enemy had taken their route through a makeshift junkyard on the outskirts of the city. It provided excellent cover, but not from the gun ships.

"This fight isn't over just because they're out of it. The insurgency level here is beyond our comprehension. We're just digging ourselves deeper into this mess..."

"With all due respect, sir," a Lance Corporal from the heavy machine gun section spoke up. "We're not trained for that kind of shit. We aren't cops. We're here to kill bad guys and help civilians. That spook shit should be left up to the government."

"Maybe," Ottoman whispered in reply. He didn't feel like debating. He watched for a few more moments as the gun ships broke a hole through the advancing line of armor. The tempo that had allowed them to overrun the GDI position came to a stand still.

"Lieutenant, looks like the Major is here."

A ragged convoy of battered, lightly armored Hummvee's barreled towards them. The turret gunners began blasting at the burning field of NOD vehicles. Crew members that had managed to survive were blown to pieces by 40mm high explosive grenades. Body parts splintered along the ground. Survivors turned tail and began to run.

"Get your shit together and prep for the evac." Ottoman barked. The Marines began to scurry around him.

"Marine coming in!"

It was Major Weiland, followed closely by First Sergeant Alston. The First Sergeant immediately slung his weapon and began assisting the other Marines with their evacuation. Weiland approached Ottoman, and clasped his shoulder with a sigh of relief.

"I didn't think you were going to make it for a second," Ottoman smiled softly, his face caked with dirt and blood.

"Come on, Lieutenant," Weiland grinned. "You need to have more faith in Marines."

Within a matter of minutes, the enemy assault was pushed back, and Task Force Hawk returned to lick their wounds. Weiland sat in on a three hour debrief with Colonel Laurent and the rest of the big wigs of Task Force Hawk.

Weiland left the meeting room with a firm handshake, and talk of some medals. But there was a feeling in the air that left him uneasy. Colonel Laurent spoke softly, as if he was hiding a great deal of anger about the whole situation. Weiland was able to shrug it off, until three days later.

On his own accord, Laurent sent a small team of men into Ganta to flush out and search for any suspected enemy activity, targeting those who may have been responsible for the disaster that had beset them a few days before. What they found was highly typical of an area that was overseen by the Brotherhood: a cache of explosives, light machine guns, and anti-armor weapons.

But when the team of special forces encountered a pocket of resistance, all hell broke loose. Within thirty minutes, one special forces operator was dead, two were injured, and some estimate that around fifteen civilians, including women, were ruthlessly and indiscriminately gunned down in their own homes.

Task Force Hawk was beginning to look like a crack special forces group to the Generals back at Washington, led by a rogue commander bent on vengeance. And when the media caught wind of the massacre that Laurent and Task Force Hawk tried to cover up, the reputation of the entire Global Defense Initiative came into play.

Task Force Hawk's most critical operation would be their last. Only two months after the incident in Ganta, the GDI policy makers closed the books on the joint task force. Colonel Laurent was stripped of his position after GDI dug up more dirt on him, finding that he had a long history of working behind the back of authority.

The few prosecutors who went out of their way to burn Laurent found that Task Force Hawk was his first time attempting to run a "conventional" infantry unit. Prior to Hawk, Laurent was assigned to several different black and covert op units. They found out that these units were directly involved with weapons and arms dealings with insurgent groups, unauthorized assassinations of Brotherhood higher ups, and an assortment of other renegade activities, off the books and under the radar of the commanders back in Washington. When these assignments were mentioned in court, they were deemed classified and thrown out without any further investigation. The Colonel soon disappeared from the eyes of the public.

The people of Ganta were outraged that Laurent was able to walk away with a slap on the wrist. Protesters rallied and held signs, claiming that their loved ones, with the number of casualties in the thousands, were butchered by Task Force Hawk and Colonel Laurent. They wanted justice. They wanted revenge. They had the Brotherhood of NOD at their side.

Just as Lt. Ottotman predicted, the Brotherhood insurgency was only fueled by these talks of GDI death squads roaming villages and eradicating generations of families. Although a GDI presence remained in Monrovia, Task Force Hawk would leave the battlefield with their tail between their legs, never again to be shoved into the mouth of war.

Milford, Massachusetts

August 3, 2001

The summer air was thick, but it was a nice change of pace for Chris. Landscaping was never something he had to worry about, but he developed a new found pride in his small piece of property located off Route 16. It was quiet enough, and a short distance from work. A one car garage kept his blue Subaru dry and comfortable. Finally, Chris had a sense of peace and tranquility.

His new job as a peer to peer counselor took the highest priority in his life. The people that he spoke with were troubled and disturbed, but he was determined to help them through tough times. Using new education benefits, Chris could go to school and work on achieving a degree. As he leaned against the shovel that was propped into the ground, the blade digging a few inches into the dirt, Chris pondered what degree he'd like to pursue. There were a few options for a guy like him who wanted to help people. Maybe he could get his Doctorates, and take it to a whole different level. Doctor Shepard. It had a ring to it.

"Chris?"

Shepard's head snapped to the right to see a stranger standing in his driveway. Chris had been spacing out, staring blankly at the street. He squinted his eyes, to try and make out the figure.

"Yea?"

The stranger took a step closer. Chris held fast. He didn't feel threatened.

"Wow. Hey. It's been a long time, brother."

"McD?" Chris shifted, raising his hand above his face to block out the glare of the sun.

Robby McDowell had his hands shoved inside the pockets of a worn out pair of jeans. His green eyes glistened in the sun, and his face was covered in a thick, red beard. It was clear to Shepard that he was no longer in the military, but he looked stronger, and more confident. Not the young Lance Corporal that Shepard had remembered. It had only been two years, though. What could have caused Robby to grow up so fast?

Chris' face lit up with a smile and he clapped McDowell's shoulder.

"What are you doing out here, man?! Come on in. Let me grab you a drink."

"Sure."

The two quietly shuffled into Shepard's living room, through the parlor and into the kitchen. Chris pulled the fridge open, scanning the shelves.

"What'll it be?"

"Anything with liquor." McDowell placed himself comfortably onto a bar chair. Chris reached into the fridge and pulled out two domestic beers, handing one to McDowell. Chris popped open his first, and extended it to McDowell.

"Cheers, old friend."

McDowell let a gentle smile creep over his face.

"Cheers."

The beers collided softly, and the two men threw back a swig.

"So," Chris wiped his mouth of the frothy brew, unleashing an exasperated sigh. "What brings you to Southern Massachusetts?"

From what Chris knew, McDowell remained with Task Force Hawk until its collapse. He served in a Personal Security Detachment for Lt. Colonel Laurent, and was promoted to Corporal before Shepard was medically discharged. Besides that, Shepard wasn't aware of when Robby got out, or what he had been up to.

"I'm new at the VA," McDowell paused to drink the beer. "And I heard your name. Heard you were one of the best Non-Doctors there. A lot of good things."

"So you stalked me back to my place?"

"I'm banging the receptionist," McDowell smirked. "I convinced her to give me your address."

Shepard laughed quietly. He wasn't entirely sure of McD's story. He had never seen him wandering the halls of the VA, and Chris was pretty convinced he knew all the faces at the hospital.

"You could have called first," Shepard said, giving McDowell some bait to chew on. He was curious to hear more of the story.

"A phone number?" McDowell hit the beer again, thinking of a punch line. "I had to eat her ass just to get your address."

Shepard chuckled. It was good to see a familiar face that didn't appear so haunted. McDowell looked very content. Either he was doing well, or he was doing a good job of hiding it.

"How do they treat you over there?"

"Great! There's no doubt you work at one of the finest hospitals in the area," Robby's voice was sincere. "I'm sure you fit in perfectly with the rest of the team."

"Are you getting treatment for something?"

Robby shook his head, no.

"So... Why are you there?"

"I'm looking for some people," McDowell placed his beer down.

"Well there's a really great database called Vet-Connect," Shepard started. "You can sign up, search by unit, date of service, rank -"

"Task Force Hawk never existed. Our time serving with that unit is just a black hole, devoid of any official information," McDowell interrupted in a stern tone.

"I'm aware," Shepard sipped his beer, unsure of what to make of McDowell's attitude. "So what?"

"So I'm doing the dirty work to find out where the rest of us went."

Shepard didn't understand.

"Dirty work? Whose dirty work?"

Robby grinned.

"Our former commander," McDowell's voice was hushed, as if an outside source was listening in. "Laurent."

Shepard was confused.

"What the fuck for? I thought they washed him out?"

"He's in charge of a new unit. Off the books. Under the radar. Funded by his own cash, run directly by him."

"He's a fucking nut, if you ask me."

"He's a nut with a lot of information," McDowell stepped up in defense of his former commander. "Information that the GDI doesn't want to act upon. Reliable information. Shit that can save lives, and purge the world of the Brotherhood."

Shepard started to shake his head, grabbing his beer, and taking a hard swig.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Shepard demanded something other than wishy washy mind games. McDowell was starting to sound like a spy.

"The Brotherhood is here. Wandering and looking and waiting for an opportunity to strike," McDowell paused for a swig of beer. He spaced out his words to bring emphasis to the fact that there was some shady stuff going on. "We believe they're going to unleash something really big in the next two weeks. It's going to kill a lot of people, and we need to stop it. We need a team. Laurent wants only the best."

"I got blown the fuck up back there in Ganta. I've got shrapnel in my leg for the rest of my life, and haven't been a part of this game for almost two years. Who is we, and why do they want me?"

"Well you already know Laurent. Weiland and Ottoman are in. Me, and a couple other guys, too."

"So you came all the way to Massachusetts to hunt me down and recruit me for your," Chris stopped and corrected himself. "For Laurent's little spy game?"

Robby McDowell slowly nodded his head. Chris realized how serious he was, and took a step back from his friend.

"No. No way. I have a life here. You know about all that dirt they dug up on him. He's maniacal and shouldn't be leading troops."

McDowell knew he would run into resistance with Shepard. He was sensible and logical in his argument. Why would anyone in their right mind join forces with the man who ran a special unit into one of the most embarrassing campaigns in the history of the Tiberium Wars? Shepard could even pin the death of Danielson and Thaymes on the shoulders of the former Colonel.

"You've got some nerve coming here asking me to join your suicide squad," Shepard continued, growing more and more furious. "What we did in Monrovia was justified. We were there to help people. Our brothers died trying to help people, and Marc Laurent ran in there, blinded by vengeance, and slaughtered innocent civilians. That's not a leader. That's a fucking psychopath. He's no better than the NOD commanders wiping out entire villages in Africa."

McDowell paused to let it all sink in. He couldn't really argue with the former Marine he once looked up to and admired. Chris Shepard had all the qualities of a great leader. Selfless. Disciplined. A man with a solid moral compass. But Robby McDowell was convinced that their former commander knew things that could help shape the tide of the war.

"I'm convinced that we're doing the right thing, man." McDowell spoke softly. "We can right our wrongs."

"Our? You make it seem like you had a say in what happened. Those are HIS wrongs, not yours!"

"You have to trust me, Chris. I wouldn't have come all this way if I didn't think what we were doing was going to save lives. I've seen too much..." McDowell's voice trailed off, his eyes glazed over. Chris realized he was letting his emotions get to him, and took a step towards his brother in arms.

"Look brother..."

"No man, you're right," McDowell suddenly snapped out of the haze he was caught up in. "You're absolutely right."

Chris was concerned. Laurent must have had a serious conversation with Robby to get him to travel all the way to Massachusetts in an attempt to hunt down a former member of Task Force Hawk. There seemed to be some regret in McDowell's eyes, but Chris knew that if McDowell went back empty handed, Laurent would be pissed.

"I'll tell him you are out of the fight for good," McDowell started to get excited, as if he was brainstorming a sea of lies to throw at Laurent. "You're a vegetable. You can't even remember your own name."

Chris sighed and shook his head. "You shouldn't have to, Robby. What exactly did he tell you to make you believe in this... intel?"

"Not what he told me, Chris. What he showed me."

Shepard shook his head. He couldn't stand the mind games. The double oh seven secret bullshit that was haunting their conversation. Everything that came out of Rob McDowell's mouth was vague and plagued with secrecy. Shepard wanted nothing to do with it. As far as he was concerned, Laurent had corrupted a good warrior with a malleable mind. Rob McDowell was guilt stricken and susceptible to mental manipulation. Just thinking about this made Chris even more disgusted with the whole situation.

"Something is going down in a couple of weeks," McDowell quickly finished his drink and set it down. "If you need to get in touch with me, here's my contact information. It will expire at the end of the month."

And with that, the two men parted ways. For three nights, Chris Shepard couldn't get a full nights sleep. His tossing and turning was interrupted by faint sounds of machinegun fire and explosions. Every time he closed his eyes, blinding flashes of the explosions that killed Jeremy Thaymes shook him awake. What was Rob McDowell talking about? What did Laurent show him that had him so convinced of a potential attack? Chris decided it was a plot to bring in former soldiers to be Laurent's expendable pawns in some grand scheme that would get them all killed. Shepard wanted nothing to do with it, and rightfully so. But McDowell wasn't a liar, and for him to go so far out of his way to try to convince his former friend that Laurent knew something was up, really troubled Christopher Shepard.


End file.
